A/N: So, fewerbrokenpieces writes this amazing fic titled Every Waking Minute. It is breathtaking and beautiful and one of the best Jake and Bells stories I have ever read. So much so that I was inspired by her fabulous writing and heartfelt characterizations of my two favorite characters that I just had to write a little drabble piece for her. A fanfic for a fanfic as it were. Please go read her story first, you will not be disappointed. I hope you all enjoy this!
I would just like to thank jkane180 for being the world's best beta (I've overloaded her inbox this weeks and she had been amazing) and wordslinger for recommending this story to me (love ya hard).
Disclaimer: I do not own twilight or these characters or the fanfic for which this was written.
Outtake for EWM (Hidden Minutes)
Sitting alone on this scratchy motel comforter, I run my finger over the faded photograph in my hand. It's late. One in the morning in—
I don't even know where. Somewhere between New Hampshire and Washington. All the motels feel the same now-cold, lonely, and almost unbearable with just my thoughts and regrets and memories to fill the empty space.
I glance at my phone. My fingers itch to dial the number I committed to memory years ago. I long to hear his husky voice, and if I close my eyes, I almost can. The memory of it burns so bright and vivid I can see his sunny smile, feel his warm hand wrapped around mine.
But I don't call. I just can't.
Instead, I close my eyes, fall back against the pillows, and remember a time when it was just Jake and me. Before Edward returned and the decisions I made set in motion things I wish I could change. But I know the seventeen year old me couldn't see past the glamour. Past Edward's overly romantic gestures and fairytale words. Past the big house filled with a family I thought I needed.
I can see Jake's smile fade, feel his rough, warm hand cup my cheek. He whispers something low and husky in his native tongue, and I feel my heart speed up in response—like something inside me recognizes the words. He leans in; his soft lips are so close, just barely brushing against mine. He swallows thickly, leans forward and—
Instead of that damn phone ringing, I let my fantasy take over. I let him kiss me and imagine how amazing it would have felt. Not like the one on the mountain. That was full of desperation and guilt. This, though… this would be sweet, soft, perfect.
I can't fight the tears. They fall fast and furiously down my cheeks. I double over, clutching my stomach and wishing with everything in me that I had let him kiss me. That I could have that past with him. Those memories. That history.
Instead, I have a fleeting moment, on a cold mountain, when I thought it was already too late and it could never be enough. And it haunts me, tortures me endlessly.
Her name is a constant, painful echo in my heart. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine seeing her, imagine that she's still human—beautiful, blushing and mine.
A sharp pain stabs at me. I drop the wrench in my shaky hand, and it clangs loudly onto the oil-stained garage floor. I mutter a curse, but the anger in my words is only half-hearted. I'm slowly dying without her. The pain is almost unbearable.
It's late. Maybe one in the morning. But I don't care. I can't sleep anyway. I grip the sides of the car I'm working on, my knuckles turn almost white, and I hang my head.
I can't breathe. It's excruciating. And even though I know it was her choice, her decision, that took her away from me, I can't help but blame myself.
I sigh heavily and cross the garage into the make-shift waiting room, slouching down into one of the chairs and leaning my head back. I let my eyes close. I let her name, the constant mantra, bubble up to the surface and allow myself to think of her, to fantasize about the life we should have. Together.
I can see her smile; feel her silky skin beneath my fingertips. I imagine her soft lips on mine. I can remember them as clearly as if that kiss had happened only moments ago. And, Christ, how I wish it had. How I wish I could just go home right now and find her in my bed.
When Sam and Emily had their first baby, all I could think about was Bella carrying mine, her body round and her skin glowing. Maybe he or she would have her chocolate eyes or her perfect lips. Maybe she would have been happy. I could have made her happy.
I'm all alone, so I don't stop the torrent of tears as they fall against my skin, staining and ripping apart the tough exterior I've tried to maintain.
Sometimes I think I hate her. Even if everything inside me, every single last part of me, protests that thought almost violently. I want to hate her. Even if I know I never will. I will die loving her.
Another night alone. Another night I sit looking at my phone, wishing I could just pick it up and call him. Because I need him. Because I love him. Because ever since I got to Forks, the realization that I acknowledged in the back of my mind that he was the one I should have chosen, that I love him, has slapped me in the face over and over again.
I stare at my unchanged room, the purple comforter, the pictures on the wall, even the faded yellow curtains still in place. I stare at the window, remembering that night he snuck in it, remembering how I asked him if we could just run away.
The rain is slowly falling outside, beating a steady rhythm against the closed window. For a split second, I want to open it, and I think maybe he's out there, in the woods, like he used to be.
It's cold, I'm all alone, and I'm dying for heat, for warmth, for his arms, his lips on mine. But he won't even talk to me.
Maybe I'm too late.
There's a crippling pain in my very bones. Ever since she got back. Ever since I saw her. Ever since I closed my eyes and heard her heart beating. The one thing I wanted so bad for so long to never stop but was almost sure it had.
I'm all alone in my garage again. It's late, it's raining, and I'm barely able to hold a wrench my hands are shaking so badly.
It would be so easy. So easy to just go to Forks, to climb into her window like I've done before. To hold her. To kiss her.
And yet, it's just not that easy. She may be back, but for how long? How long until she realizes I'm still not enough or he shows up again?
Fuck it, I tell myself. I wipe my stained hands on a filthy rag and run through the rain to my truck. I remember once I'm on the road that she's at the hospital. Dad said as much earlier. I drive straight there, my eyes tired and bloodshot, and my heart feels heavy in my chest.
When I get there, she's asleep, slumped over in a hard chair. I swallow hard. I walk right back out and stand in the hallway debating with myself on whether I should go or stay. But the pull to stay is just so fucking strong.
I go get some coffee and another chair. And I just sit with her. I don't touch her even though my fingers are itching to do so. Something in me feels better, soothed, comforted. Like an ice-pack on a bruise.